The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain (3 page)

lost
adjective
: no longer to be found;
verb
: that one has failed to win

Mum sleeps through the smell of coffee the next morning. Toast burning. Eggs cooking. I ring Dad's mobile and leave a message: ‘Call me, Dad. It's urgent.' I have to get to New South Wales. I mean, I can't be the only one not there when we win at the Championships.

I go to Jane for advice. Her front door is open; I walk through the hall, stepping over cricket bats and washing folded in piles at bedroom doors. I love going to her house; it's warm and messy and comfortable, like an unmade bed on a winter's day. Mrs Iranian is in the kitchen drinking tea when I arrive. ‘Go on through, Gracie,' she says without looking up from her paper.

I curl up next to Jane and tap her until she wakes.

‘Faltrain, what time is it?'

‘Ten o'clock.' I tap again.

‘You better have some serious problem to be waking me up at this time.'

‘Mum can't afford to send me to New South Wales. The nursery isn't making enough money.' It seems better just saying it to Jane. ‘She can't even afford to keep Sam on, the guy who works at the nursery.'

‘Why don't you work for her? You could save her some money.'

‘I kill plants, Jane.'

‘If you really want to go to New South Wales, then you need to learn quick,' she says, and puts her hand on my shoulder. There's something about the way it's resting there. It's like she's holding me up.

‘What is it?'

‘Mum and Dad told us last night. Dad got the job in England. We leave in a week.' Her voice is clumsy, tripping as she speaks.

‘A week?' What were her parents thinking? My mum takes longer than that to decide we should go
shopping
. Jane was going to the other side of the
world
.

Jane and I have been friends since Year 1. She walked into our classroom on her first day and everyone stared at her. It wasn't because she was new either. She was taller than everyone else, and she had this look that said, nobody –
nobody
– mess with me. Everyone saw it. Everyone but Rebecca Jackson. She put her hand up and asked, ‘What's a grade two doing in our classroom?' Jane looked her right in the face, glanced over her short hair and answered, ‘What's a boy doing in a dress?' I grinned at her. I had short hair too, but I knew she wouldn't laugh at me. I just knew it. Jane was best friend material. Without her I'd be lost.

She couldn't leave. It wasn't right. Wasn't there some sort of parenting manual that said they couldn't do this?

‘You knew it might happen, Faltrain. I told you Dad had applied for the job.'

‘But a week?'

‘The people at Dad's work already found us a place to live.'

‘But what will happen to your house?'

‘We're renting it out, with all our stuff, just till we see if we like it in England.'

I tried to imagine another family in the kitchen, cooking dinner with the Iranians' pots. If I dropped in on Sunday morning, a family I'd never met would be eating off Jane's plates. There would be another person sleeping in Jane's bed.

‘Mum wants us there for the start of the next term. She thinks it'll be easier that way.'

Easier for who? I have so much to say, huge sentences about how I will miss her. I have so many words they won't fit in my mouth. I try to break off a tiny piece of them. I can't. I shrug her hand off my shoulder and leave.

I want to ride back to Jane's and tell her what I'm really thinking. Life won't be anything without her. It will be a room with no television. No radio. Life will be noise with no sense. I can't. If I say that then I'll cry. So I don't think about her standing at the door watching me close the gate. I paint out her face, the corners of her mouth pointing down, and her eyes, that look scared for the first time that I can remember.

Mum is sitting at the kitchen table when I get there. Worry has dug trenches into her face.

‘Mum, I'll work for free at the nursery.'

‘Gracie, I need someone responsible.'

‘I will be, Mum.' I hold out my hand to her and she takes it.

Most people wouldn't describe my mum as gentle. If you saw her in the supermarket, speeding down the aisle with
the shopping trolley, you'd definitely think, get out of that woman's way, quick, like before she runs you over.

But if you've ever seen her at the nursery, you'd say something else. There you'd see her touching the leaves of the agapanthus, looking for signs of disease. You'd see her putting her finger into the soil around a potted plant, testing to see if it's thirsty. She touches me when I'm sick and I feel like one of her plants, her hands lightly checking my temperature. She's slow and kind then, like now.

‘We'll see how it goes, Gracie,' she says. ‘If the Championships mean that much to you, I'll try to find a way.'

I hug her.

We rent a video tonight. I curl up on the couch with my head on Mum's lap. I tell her about Jane and hear her reply echoing through her belly: ‘It will be all right.' I move closer to her and squash the feeling that someone is nibbling slowly at the corners of my life.

I wish Dad was here, watching horror films with Mum and me, three voices shouting at the woman about to be attacked, ‘He's behind you!' I know Dad wants to be here. I know he misses us like crazy too.

 

I'm lost. Not in the geographical sense, I've always been good with maps. I'm in Bendigo, trying to convince a school librarian that she needs a set of Geological Explorer books to really make her resource centre the learning hub she'd like it to be. Kids will spend their lunchtimes in this room if only she has these books on the shelves. I look at her and think, I haven't been home in months. I should walk out of here and drive. I should get on the freeway and go without stopping.

In my mind Gracie is hugging me, yelling at me about soccer and boys and books. I can't get on that road, though. I'm lost in my heart and that's the worst kind of lost to be. I feel like a sailor at the turn of the century, moving across oceans and discovering new lands. I'm looking desperately at the horizon, searching for a point to fix my sights on. The sea seems to stretch out forever. The sky is dark; I know there's going to be a wall of water, powered by winds, and it's going to be unstoppable. I want to shelter Gracie. I want to protect her from the waves.

How can I protect Gracie when I can't even take care of myself? I look at her and I see the person I was, years ago. She has my smile; it's a little crooked on one side. Her shoulders are the same shape as mine. But Gracie has a whole life ahead of her. Mine's half over and I can't work out what I want as the ending.

I should go back to Gracie and Helen. There was a time when that was all I wanted. I kept leaving little pieces of myself whenever I went away, though, and less and less of me went back to them. I didn't laugh as much with Gracie. I didn't tell Helen what I was thinking anymore. It's not like I've left all those pieces in the one place, either. They're scattered and I
can't remember where. I'm always looking for what will make me whole. What will make me happy?

Somewhere along the way I started to think it wasn't Helen anymore. She hasn't changed. Her laugh is still the one I remember. Her finger is still the one I put the ring on all those years ago. I can't understand why I don't want to curve next to her, keep her back warm anymore. Surely you don't lose love like keys?

fate
noun
: a prophetic declaration of
what must be

The day I met Bill he was wearing odd socks. His shirt was untucked. I remember all this. Things he has forgotten.

I was playing tennis with a friend when he walked onto the court. His hair was falling across one eye, like he was winking at all the girls. My friend lobbed the ball at me and I hit it hard. It went right where my heart was – well, sort of. Lucky I was holding back. We might never have had Gracie.

‘I'm so sorry,' I said and ran over to help. I wasn't, though. Sometimes destiny needs a little help from a killer backhand.

 

I'd planned on the fact that Helen would be playing tennis. She didn't know it but I'd been watching her for weeks. Of course, I hadn't planned on the ball hitting me like that. What man would? She was worth it, though.

‘Good shot,' I gasped, lying on the ground trying to look casual. It was fate. We were meant to be.

 

I've heard the story a million times. Mum lobbed a ball and hit Dad in the nuts. Whammo. The crazy thing is, the way they always told it to me, it sounded romantic. Sort of like a movie where the girl gets the guy but you don't expect her to. In the past I've always loved hearing the story. Right now, though, I think those two have a lot to answer for.

I mean, you grow up hearing a story like that and you start to expect things. Things like, love will come your way at just the right moment, or there's a person out there who's meant only for you. Like he's got a label on his jumper with my name on it. A person starts looking for signs. Take Nick, for example. He came to our school in Year 8. The first time I saw him in class he had
World Soccer
hidden behind his science book. I was sitting near him and he must have known I was trying to look at it because he held it up a bit higher so that I could see. I caught a glimpse of a squad crowded around a trophy, fists in the air, and I knew. Nick was it. Maybe I should take Jane's advice: ‘Just hit him in the balls, Faltrain, and test your parents' theory.'

 

Heads it's Annabelle, tails it's –
Gracie Faltrain
.

 

There's a whole heap of photos in the bottom drawer of our kitchen. Piles of them, not in albums or anything, just handfuls of stuff we've done together. There's one of Mum and Dad before Karen and me were born. They're standing out the front of our old house. The grass is so long in the picture it's covering the bottom of Mum's skirt. Dad's looking at the camera and his eyes are wide and sort of wild. His smile's so big I can see his teeth. His face looks kind of hopeful and their fingers are hooked, like they belong together. I can't tell which fingers are Mum's and which are Dad's. She's holding on just as tightly as he is, so how come she let go?

depart
verb
: to leave. Go. Gone. As in
not coming back. Ever?

Mum says there's a reason for everything. I can't see any good reason why I should have to lose my best friend. It's just not fair. I feel sick every time I see a plane. I want to rip England out of my atlas, declare it a non-country so they can't leave. I have dreams where I'm on the runway, holding on to the wings of the plane, my body buffeted by the wind at take-off.

I don't want to say goodbye to Jane. Who thought of that word anyway? There's
nothing
good in Jane's leaving. What if I never see her again? Jane knows everything about me. She knows the scar on my leg is from when I fell on a nail in the adventure playground after Brendan Carlen dared me to walk on the fence. She knew to stand there smiling and then run and get my mum as soon as he was out of sight. All my secrets are hers, liking Nick, missing Dad so much I can't stand it. Laughing with her makes everything all right, but maybe it would be better to pretend that she was never my friend so that I won't miss her.

She opens the door and I feel her shoulderblades through her jumper as I grab her and hold on. Tight. Maybe if I'm quiet no one will notice me hanging on to Jane as she walks onto the plane? Jane lets go before me. ‘Faltrain,' she says,‘ you'll be all right without me.' I know that to get through the rest of this year, I will need to remember the way her voice sounds when she says it.

‘But I'll miss you. Who'll save me a seat on the bus in the mornings? Who'll listen to me about Nick? Who will I watch videos with?'

‘And who will
I
hang out with, Faltrain? Have you thought about that?' Her voice is dry and cracking like clay. I tell her she'll be all right but it's like I'm talking through a screen door. She's on the other side and I can touch her through the wire, but she's just a shadow that I have to strain my eyes to see.

‘Gracie?'

‘Dad! Where've you been? I've been trying to call you.'

‘I know, kiddo, I'm sorry. I'm going to be a little longer; I've got some things to tie up here.'

Have you ever tried really hard not to cry? It just gets harder and harder to speak, like there's a tennis ball in your throat and you either need to spit it out or swallow it but you can't do either. I don't want Dad to know I'm crying, so I have to be quiet, say things like, ‘Uh-huh. Yep.'

‘So I'll see you soon, honey?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I love you, kiddo.'

‘Yep.'

‘Gracie? Are you all right?'

‘Yep. Yep. Yep.'

 

How can I explain to her that I just can't come home? It's too soon, it's too late; I do want to be with Helen every second of the day but at the same time I don't want to be with her at all. I want to have back what I felt at the beginning. I could no more leave her then than leave my arms or legs.

How do you find the beginning though? There are no roads or signs. You start to doubt it even exists. The hardest thing isn't deciding that I want to go back to when Helen and Gracie and I were us. The most difficult thing is finding the map to get there.

Imagining that Gracie and Helen aren't real anymore gives me a little peace. Except at night when I dream of them on the beach, walking along the shoreline. They're looking out for my ship; it's just a shape pasted on the horizon. They're rubbing their arms in the cold and waiting for me to drop anchor.